Dumbledore's Army: A Harry Potter Fanfiction
by flyinghorizons
Summary: Set some time after the Great War, Harry Potter is revisited with fresh horrors, bringing together two worlds so vastly different and yet similar. The magic world, thrust into conflict with the Muggle world, is troubled once again. Can an old students' group heal wounds older than magic itself?
1. Chapter 1

When Petunia Dursley heard the first flap of wings, her heart stopped. A wave of emotions passed through her mind, but she did not clasp Vernon's arm. She leaned back slightly in her chair, just to make sure Dudley was still outside, mowing the lawn. He had become surprisingly calm and driven to work ever since _the day._ She watched him committedly making his way through the green grass, his tall solid frame clenching its muscles.

The last time she had seen an owl swoop past No.6, Lovington, was when her nephew had sent her a letter. Dudley had seen it first, because Petunia had been far too scared to open the sealed envelope. She watched his expression turn from worried to calm. When he passed the letter to her, she wondered if he understood exactly what she had from the words on the parchment.

 _Safe._

 _Love, Harry._

The word had brought an unnatural relief to her, and indeed, she _had_ known the terrors of Lord Voldemort's reign. When Vernon saw tears pouring down her face, he realized what had happened. It must have taken him plenty of resistance to not say "So that Lord Voldything is dead?"

But it had been three months since another owl had glided into the Dursley's. She was not accustomed to it anymore, now that her nephew had left her home. His teenage life had involved much of owl-action, and there had been an abrupt loss of connection between Petunia and the owls once he disappeared for the final time. She had pictured him, then, looking much like his father, the man Lily had married. James Potter, in his messiness, had been very intimidating to Petunia, much as his son had always been.

She didn't hear the flapping of wings again, and so she continued sipping her morning tea as memories of Harry Potter rushed back into her. As she put her teacup back on its saucer, a rattle shook the entire house. Petunia looked up to see Vernon's fleeting expression of shock. The couple raced to the door, praying inwardly as fast as possible. But by the time Vernon had thrown the door open, Dudley was gone. The lawn mower buzzed, still operating, but Dudley Dursley was nowhere to be seen. The entire expanse of Lovington was silent, much like the summer personality of Privet Drive. But while at Privet Drive, Vernon would maintain the highest levels of normalcy in fear of the neighbors, he was a queer form now- standing very still and looking at the spot Dudley had been taken from.

When Petunia and her husband made eye-contact, there was unnatural fear in his eyes, and heavy doubt. She would not tell him the sound she had heard, not just yet. She would not make her husband cower in the grass in fright. She bent to the ground instead, and found deep gouges in the soil, where the grass had been ripped out entirely. But there was something else, something that solidified the understanding in her mind. She took Vernon's arm and led him into the house, and his look of alarm never left his face.

"Not again, Petunia. Not again." was all Vernon said, shaking his head vigorously, after she had gently told him of the events that transpired before Dudley disappeared.

"Vernon," Petunia said, her frustration openly displayed now. "If we don't, we lose our son."

Five minutes and a strong hug between husband and wife later, Petunia's hand quivered as she held the pen over a clean sheet of paper. The words were almost illegible, but she persisted, finishing the letter, folding it, and inserting it into an envelope. She wrote two words on the envelope, hoping for the first time that their magic called to the right people.

 _Harry Potter._


	2. Chapter 2: No 6

Chapter 2: No. 6

"Morning, Minister."

"Morning."

The cramped elevators at the Ministry forced conversation, or so it seemed to Kingsley as he stood in one of them. A few unpredictable and jarring stops later, the elevator was emptied save for him. He preferred his journeys alone, especially after his appointment as Minister for Magic. He truly wondered how Fudge, or Scrimgeour, or even Thicknesse had done it. Everyone wanted to talk to you when you were Minister; they wanted your views on all things in the magic world.

Kingsley was wondering how conversational Muggle government work-places were, and if he would prefer it, when an owl fluttered into the elevator, and promptly landed on his shoulder. He frowned; Ministry communication usually stuck to memos, and owls were well aware of this. He looked at the owl on his shoulder almost suspiciously. It weighed next to nothing, but he could feel it's heaving breaths. Clearly an owl that had traversed the country, he noticed the letter dangling from its foot. The paper was worn from travel and was written on with, he was surprised to note, Muggle ink, straight from one of the ball-point pens Arthur Weasley was so fascinated with- "So the ink never runs out?"

He was far more concerned with the words on the envelope though. Scrawled on it was the name 'Harry Potter', with no address. The name had no doubt been hastily written. When the elevator stopped at his floor, and he could see his office through the iron grates, the owl promptly fell asleep on his shoulder. Sighing, he pressed another button, and the elevator buzzed before making its way to the Auror Headquarters.

Holding the owl gingerly in his large palm, Kingsley wandered through the mess of the office before finally finding Potter and Weasley tossing what appeared to be a pink Pygmy Puff across the room to each other.

"Morning Kingsley, how's the weather outside?" Ron said. Kingsley frowned, until he remembered exactly why the Auror office was in such disarray. Several months after Voldemort's disappearance, Auror activities had only increased. There was much to do when one spoke of cleaning up the magic world- too many people to round up and too many memories to reconfigure.

"Morning." said Kingsley, his deep voice filling the room. "Potter, you've got mail."

He handed Harry the envelope, who frowned as he noticed the writing on the letter along with the relatively unconscious owl on Kingsley's shoulder.

"Owl post? That's strange." he observed. Kingsley nodded.

"That's why I thought I'd give this to you personally. I was curious." He admitted.

Harry carefully tore off the seal, opened the envelope, and pulled out the letter. Ron sat up when he saw Harry's expression, which had changed very quickly.

"What does it say?" he asked.

Harry handed the letter first to Kingsley.

 _Help. Dudley taken._

 _Petunia_

The words had been terribly written, almost scratched on to the paper. There were great splotches on the surface where Petunia Dursley's tears had fallen. The address scrawled below was illegible save for 'No. 6'.

Kingsley watched as Potter sat down heavily, frowning. Ron read and reread the letter, and his face was blank. It was clear that Weasley understood as much, or less than what Kingsley did.

"Those- that's-your aunt!" Ron said, gasping with each word, marveling at the letter which was written not in parchment but clean white Muggle paper. Harry nodded. Kingsley sighed, wondering how _he_ knew Harry's Muggle family better than Potter's best friend himself. But then again, after years of working for Albus Dumbledore and his quiet methods of watching the Dursley family and young Harry, it came as no surprise.

"It sounds like your cousin was kidnapped." Kingsley said quietly, peering at Harry. "But why would they write to you?"

"She must've seen something." Ron said. "We've seen wizards attacking Muggles before."

Harry nodded grimly. He recalled a certain Rita Skeeter drowning the world in parchment about Albus Dumbledore's father, Percival, being thrown in Azkaban for attacking a few Muggle boys.

"True, but no one knows where they live. Except me. We kept that certain, so they stayed completely out of the magic world. That's how they wanted it." He said, his mind racing.

 _And who would kidnap Dudley? What would it achieve?_

As if reading, Harry's mind, Kingsley dryly said "I doubt it's Muggle ransom money they want."

Harry scrutinized the piece of paper as best he could. It was certain that this was his aunt's handwriting; he knew it very well. Kingsley, meanwhile, leaned on the desk, frowning. He seem to have quite forgotten that he was Minister of Magic, and not an Auror any longer.

"To kidnap Harry Potter's cousin, what would one's motive be?" Kingsley said, realizing a split second later that the answer lay in his question. His brow furrowed and he began to look very grim indeed. Harry and Ron looked at the Minister.

"The last person who would use someone else to get to you was killed by you." Kingsley said, his deep voice sounding menacing. Harry's hand almost instinctively went up to his forehead, where the scar Lord Voldemort gave him was etched permanently. It did not prickle, but Harry knew when it would, if it ever did.

"It can't be him. He's gone. We know he's gone." Harry said. The other two nodded- there was no doubt about Lord Voldemort's lack of existence, and fearful thinking would only get them worse off.

"If it's not him, it's someone else. You'll be treading thin ice from now on if there's someone after you, Harry."

"I dealt with it for eighteen years, I think I can deal with it now, Minister." said Harry almost casually.

Kingsley laughed.

"I do have a suggestion though, and seeing as I was once an Auror, do consider it. Don't meet your aunt and uncle just yet. I see this as a possible ploy- if the letter's a fake then you're playing right into their hands." He looked at the envelope on the table. "No.6 might be a trap. I say you lie low for a bit, and wait until you get another reason to go."

Harry considered the fact that most of his plans involved charging right in without a thought, and then nodded. He folded the letter though, and kept it in his pocket. It felt terribly heavy nestled there, because Harry felt an enormous amount of guilt in the fact that he was not rushing to his Aunt's aid. He would have usually, in previous years, never been one to rush to his aunt's aid, but strange happenings and maturity had changed Harry's outlook towards a family that was never ready to accept him and were forced to.

He sat still at his desk for hours, reading an issue of _Which Broomstick,_ desperately trying to get his mind back on track. Ron had disappeared from the office; Harry assumed he was following up on an investigation they had been briefed on a few days ago. A village in Wales had reported a recurring series of vampire attacks, and Ron had always wanted to go on a vampire hunt. Harry caught him muttering "Lockhart" under his breath as they were briefed, and was instantly taken back to his old teacher's ridiculously titled books.

 _Voyaging with Vampires…_

Harry put down the magazine, sighing. He twirled his wand in his fingers, shooting red and green sparks into the air nonchalantly, before he finally stood into the air. He exhaled, shrugged to himself, and with a loud _crack,_ apparated out of the Auror office and the Ministry of Magic. Moments later, he stood on a long road flanked by houses that looked very much like Privet Drive.


	3. Chapter 3: Greenhouse 3

Chapter 3: Greenhouse 3

The dark corridors of Hogwarts were surprisingly chilly; even the fiery lanterns could not warm them up. Neville walked along, hands in his trouser pockets, not really worrying about where he was going. He felt more at home in these corridors than most people, relatively more than he did when he walked through St. Mungo's. The patrol walks through Hogwarts that he had seen so many teachers do in his time as a student now appealed to him more than any part of his job.

It had been a month since he began the Hogwarts afterlife as a Herbology Teacher, taking over from Professor Sprout. He had to admit, it still felt funny being called 'Professor' by everyone. He loved his classes, and he loved his Greenhouses more than ever, but these nighttime strolls that he now had the full authority to do were walks along nostalgia lane that Neville went through every night. Professor McGonagall had given him a fairly surprised look when he volunteered for a shift every day of the week, but she had given him the task at any rate.

Neville wondered if it was too early to assume that Hogwarts had lost its penchant for mischief and mystery. It had been a month, and life had been quiet. He spent his free evenings by the fire in Hagrid's hut, sipping tea and talking to the Care of Magical Creatures teacher. There was plenty of reminiscing to do when it came to the both of them- seven years' worth. Neville loved hearing about Hogwarts from Hagrid's point of view, but both of them had come to the conclusion, days ago, that the Weasley and Potter traditions of severely underestimating rules and regulations was finally over. There was no new warrior in the midst of Hogwarts students, it seemed. Or…as George Weasley himself had put it a week ago at The Burrow, Neville just did not know it. What if a new crop of mischief-makers had arrived, surpassing even the Weasley twins and Harry Potter?

And so when Neville walked around Hogwarts at night, he honestly _did_ hope he would find at least _someone_ awake. Nothing too crazy, just…plain old teenage wizard things. It was at that moment that Neville heard the first odd sound of the night- a soft, almost inaudible _thump._ He walked towards it as it increased in volume, until a sharp scream pierced the corridors. Neville sprinted, whipping his wand out of his pocket.

" _Lumos,"_ he muttered breathlessly as he took a turn. He realized where he was at that instant, as he found himself in front of a now wide-awake Fat Lady, who frowned in annoyance at his wandlight.

"Horrible Hippogriffs!" he said, and as the door opened outward, he galloped into the common room. Numerous Gryffindors were, now roused, peering out into the room from above. Neville found her at the fire, conscious and safe, but rattled and unmoving. She was a First Year he recognized from his classes, but he could not recall a name. She had her hands around her knees, hugging them to herself and rocking back and forth. Neville scanned the common room, looking around at the startled faces. He knew the common room well enough to know that there was no hiding place here he was not aware of. He put his wand away and knelt to the little girl.

"What's your name? It's all okay now, I'm here. Tell me what happened. Did you have a bad dream?" he asked in a hurry, noticing the book on the floor.

The girl shook her head once, and then, seemingly confused, nodded before Neville could say anything.

"Were you reading by the fire?" he asked, gently. She nodded.

"And you fell asleep?"

She nodded again. Before she began to shake her head again, he motioned for her to wait.

"What did you see?"

Neville knew much better than to assume that a frightening dream was just a dream anymore. He remembered the journey to the Ministry of Magic in his fifth year, on the back of a Thestral, and he remembered his shock when he found out what Harry had been seeing in his head. He waited for the girl to go on, but her eyes were simply confused. She took a deep breath, and after what seemed like minutes, spoke. Her voice was delicate and soft, and Neville felt far more protective than he had ever felt in his one month as a teacher.

"I woke up. I heard something. As if something fell." She said.

Neville nodded slowly. Was that the _thump_ he had heard? Was there an intruder in Gryffindor Tower?

"I thought I saw someone, and I screamed." She completed, rather mildly.

Neville walked through the room, his wand still in his pocket. The tension died down soon after he found the fallen mug and wet carpet behind the table at the far end of the common room. The Butterbeer was still slowly soaking into the carpet. He sighed as he realized that the culprits of this highly mysterious case were undoubtedly standing above him. He looked up, glaring at the students above him, trying his hardest to sound angry. He had to be honest; he didn't feel angry at all.

"Next time you're having a midnight party, at least make sure the First Year girl who's fallen asleep gets to bed first." He said dryly. He heard some sniggers, but he distinctly saw a few faces turn very guilty indeed.

Neville made his way out of the castle with an annoyed look on his face. He felt an itch on his wand-hand that told him that some part of him still missed the freedom of being a student. In the confines of his living quarters within Hogwarts, he sipped on Butterbeer before he turned in for the night, his dreams full of flying house-elves, giants, and suits of armor battling each other on the Hogwarts grounds.

When he awoke the next morning, Neville looked excitedly at his timetable for the day. He had the First Year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws in first period, which inadvertently meant he had to speak with less gusto and speed. Nevertheless, a class was a class. He realized, though, as he dressed himself in front of the mirror, that he would possibly meet the little girl who had screamed last night inside the Gryffindor Common Room. Perhaps she would be more cooperative on a sprightly Monday morning, but Neville saw much of his old self in her- he doubted she'd say a word.

"The firs' thing you want to do is stop lookin' fer trouble." Hagrid said, fifteen minutes later, sitting regally on the steps in front of his hut. Clutching a massive mug of tea, the Care of Magical Creatures Professor had been terribly amused by Neville's night adventures. "They know when yeh want to find 'em, see? Keep quiet and let 'em be. And keep yer wand in your pocket, Neville, don' scare the little 'uns, they weren' there at the Battle of Hogwarts and we should be glad about it."

Neville nodded. He didn't need to be told about _that._ Half the kids at the school knew of his role in the Battle, and he got enough stares as he crossed the Great Hall every day to continue enjoying it. The First and Second Years had no idea what Professor Longbottom could do when he wasn't tending to the plants, and he preferred it being that way. He bade farewell to Hagrid, checking his watch and realizing that breakfast in the Great Hall was at its end, and soon, his first class would be trudging their way to Greenhouse 3.

As he arranged the un-potted Mandrakes neatly alongside empty pots, the first students began to peer in and enter. They surrounded the big table in the center anxiously, wondering what all the empty pots were about. Neville grinned at them as he began the introduction of the lesson, finding it hard to not recall his fainting episode when _he_ had first re-potted Mandrakes in his second year. He was glad the syllabus had been revised to start the First Years much earlier with dangerous plants, primarily because he loved seeing their faces as he described the ill-effects of the Mandrake cry. He had them all put on their earmuffs, and that was when he spotted _her._ With long locks of golden hair, the Gryffindor girl was by far the only quiet one in the Greenhouse.

"Pull them out when I finish counting to three. One. Two-" Neville began, his hands grasping the Mandrake from above.

The glass on Neville's left- all of it- shattered with a crash. By instinct alone, he let go of the Mandrake and pulled out his wand, attempting as much as possible to slow the shards down before they cascaded down onto the First Years, who were readily unleashing fresh screams as the pieces fell around them. There was complete silence after the screams, as Neville looked around desperately to make sure everyone was safe. Before he could scan the entire crowd, he heard a _whoosh,_ and acted quickly to cast a Shield Charm on the children on his direct right, just as the glass exploded.

"Get down!" he yelled over the sound of falling glass. The children obeyed, ducking under the table as Neville, wand raised, furiously looked for the perpetrator. He knew that spell, he had worked on it hundreds of times alone in the Room of Requirement, when Dumbledore's Army was _not_ meeting. The glass only exploded like that with _Reducto._

He heard another _whoosh,_ and a bright green jet of light missed him by inches. His wand was at the ready this time, and his curse worked well, upsetting pot after pot of Mandrake, causing the ugly baby plants to crawl onto the table, screaming their agony. His earmuffs protecting his ears, he ducked to make sure the children were safe; and he thanked his stars that he had instructed them to put on their earmuffs. The Mandrakes cried elongated yells into the grounds, and Neville was sure the perpetrator was within the Greenhouse- for no spells zoomed at him as he stood vulnerable.

" _Reparo. Reparo."_ He said quickly, and the glass on either side of the Greenhouse flew back into place. Before the intruder knew his plans, Neville pointed his wand at the door. " _Colloportus."_

It happened very quickly then. Caught, the intruder emerged from under his hiding place, brandishing a wand. Neville blocked curse after curse, attempting to shield both himself and the kids at the same time. His wand hand moved like a sword, slashing through the air as the spells flew dangerously around the Greenhouse. An arc of fire suddenly sped towards him, and he found himself enraged.

 _Incendio in MY Greenhouse? NO!_

" _AUGAMENTI!"_ he roared, putting all his magic power into the spell. A massive jet of water erupted from the end of his wand, dousing the entire Greenhouse before the flames could lick its targets. The colossal amount of water that swept the classroom left his students spluttering and wiping their faces, but the intruder had disappeared. Being careful to not slip, Neville sprinted out, looking around for his opponent. He was left with a blank face, almost as if the _Confundus_ charm had been cast on him, for the attacker was nowhere in sight. By this time, Professor McGonagall, in her tartan gown that Neville swore she had had for two decades, was rushing across the grounds to get to the commotion. Hagrid trailed behind, catching up quickly with his great strides. By the time they reached him, Neville had the students slowly file back to the castle. He waited till they were out of earshot before he explained the entire story to the Headmistress.

"…Gone? But where on earth could he have gone? You can't apparate within Hogwarts!" McGonagall said indignantly. Hagrid behind her nodded knowingly.

"I don't deny that, Professor, but he's gone. Without a trace. What else can it be?" Neville argued patiently.

"Invisibility Cloak, maybe? Like Harry's?" Hagrid suggested. Neville shook his head.

"I saw him when he came out in the open. I couldn't make out a face, but if he had an Invisibility Cloak I don't see why he would let go of it in a fight."

Professor McGonagall frowned, pursing her lips as her mind raced. Hagrid, meanwhile began patting Neville in admiration.

"Saved an entire class, there, Professor. Well done!" he said, gruffly, knocking the breath out of the Herbology Professor with each well-meant pat.

"Yes, Neville, well done, I'm glad we have another member of the Order here at any rate, to keep these children safe. But this is unprecedented, something of such a sort has not happened in Hogwarts." McGonagall said, nodding. She went silent then, as Hagrid had Neville recount the spontaneous duel. After what seemed like several minutes, after she had clearly done a considerable amount of thinking, she looked at Neville and Hagrid."

"I will inform the staff today, of what has occurred. But I suggest we all stay on the alert until we find out what we are dealing with. Stay on your toes, gentlemen." She said, starting back to the castle, leaving Hagrid to help Neville repair the damage in Greenhouse 3.

Behind the numerous heaps of paper, Luna Lovegood was a mess, as much of a mess as Luna could possibly be. Her eyes were narrowed onto the parchment before her, and she frowned harder and harder as her fingers holding the quill moved. The scrape of a quill on parchment was inaudible under the sound of the printing press in the corner of the room. Magazine with colorful covers spewed out of the press, the name _The Quibbler_ printed on each copy at the very top.

She had just approved news reports from three of her writers, a daily progress rate far too slow for her ideals. If her father's creation was to resist the pulls of bankruptcy, she had to pull through. She remained at _The Quibbler's_ office all night, gazing alertly through rolls of parchment. She didn't notice the Stunning spell as it zipped towards her. Luckily, it collided head on with her desk, pushing it back suddenly. Before she hit the wall, Luna steadied herself, ducking behind the desk and pulling out her wand.

A Killing curse scorched the wall behind her desk, the green sparks showering over her. She moved quickly; a night of continuous coffee mugs left her surprisingly proactive. On her hands and knees, she crawled as quickly as she could to get behind the shelves of books on the right side of her office. She knew the extensive library well enough to maneuver around it. _The Quibbler's_ office, much like a library with an editorial extension, was built to house thousands of books. The book shelves twisted and turned to Luna's fancy; she had had it built very similar to the staircases of Hogwarts. Only she and a few writers knew the maze well enough to get in and out without a bother. She broke into a run once she entered the lanes, finding the far right corner much faster than she usually did. She heard footsteps around her, and she knew her attacker was desperately searching for his prey.

Luna grimaced as the unknown person seemingly in frustration, began firing _Reducto_ at the shelves, causing them to collapse into splintered wood. Her books, all of them, as if in slow motion, began dissipating into shreds. She screamed in anger, rising suddenly, her legs like springs. The wooden wand in her grasp fired off sparks of fiery red, and somehow, she found her target. Like the smooth motion of clockwork, the attacker toppled backwards, crashing through the glass window. Luna gasped. The drop from the window was an easy twenty feet.

She sprinted to the window, being careful to avoid the shattered glass pieces spread on the floor. Thrusting her head out of it, she looked down. There was nothing on the pavement below but pieces of glass.

" _Reparo,"_ she muttered, her wand waving. The pieces of glass and the wooden frame of her window sailed back into place.

In no mood for nonsense, she locked the door of the room and calmed herself at the front desk. Her wand was still in her hand, and as she gripped it tightly, she found herself remembering the frightening darkness under the Malfoy Manor. She was alone now- there was no Ollivander to give her company. It took her several deep, measured breaths to get her mind back on track. Her hands shook slightly; it had been years since she had been in combat. Her fingers coiled nervously around her wand; the feeling of something _other_ than a quill upset her suddenly. She nervously tapped the surface of her desk, muttering to herself about confusing situations and unpleasant surprises. She frowned furiously as a rush of thoughts sped through her mind. The feelings she harbored every time she entered into combat had changed considerably.

The first time she had stood at the brink of death, her fourth year at Hogwarts, a charge of adrenaline had spiked through her. The energy had made her far more hyperactive than she usually was, delving into a part of her she hadn't known existed. She had cast spells that came easily to her lips, and right at the end, she had felt let down. Watching Harry Potter crumble in grief for the second time in two years had been anguishing for her. It had not been hurtful the first time, when Harry had brought Cedric Diggory's body back for his father. She had not known Harry then, not cared for him as she had grown to on her fourth year. The Dark Days, as _The Quibbler_ had titled it accurately, left Luna and her friends without most of their seniors. While Harry, Ron, and Hermione traversed the country, she had been in her sixth year at school, a year riddled with the pain of capture and torture.

Much of her understanding of Harry Potter had not been, surprisingly, through Ginny Weasley. Her chance encounters with him around the school had drawn her to him, and him to her, as she had often felt. She could not, in school, understand or acknowledge the strange connection she had to this complicated boy. She had had plenty of time to ruminate on it in the cellar of the Malfoys. She had sat in darkness, thinking, as much as she allowed herself to, of her savior. She tried burying the thoughts to deny hope from creeping in where it would not be realized, but only one face popped into her mind. _Hope. Harry Potter._

Of course, the affections she had as a school girl were as trifling of emotions as ever. She had never held the concept of romance as a powerful one, just one that should be as fluid as a river- with no real destination, no real objective- just something that you must go along with. If the river takes a turn, then so be it. She had never been the girl whose heart fluttered expectantly in his presence, or the one whose tongue turned numb when he spoke to her. It just did not work that way for Luna. But her attachments had always been strange- at some point, she did ask herself if love was for her at all. The tie to Harry Potter that she had felt, however mild the feeling, had disappeared after his rather sudden entry into Ginny's life. She had never felt _love_ for him, or anything remotely close, but she had thought of the potential of abandoning her own pursuits and turning to a new one- romance. The thought had perished as she watched her own best friend plow through boys like they were Potions assignments- things to work hard on but throw away in disgust after the end. Her views on life, on love, and on attachment had changed drastically over the course of her fifth year at Hogwarts. Unsurprisingly, her fate, like most others, was tied to Harry Potter's existence.

After the Great War, she had seen less and less of him. As he did his Auror duty, she wrote for _The Quibbler,_ putting her heart and soul into her father's life. She Apparated once in a while to the beautiful walls of The Burrow, but the visits had soon stopped as her workload increased. Truth be told, Luna could not recall the past year at all. And she did not want to, she realized, as she sat motionless at her desk, clutching her wand. The past year had been eventful, and yet, all she could remember was the numb routine of it. Her memories fighting for Dumbledore's Army were fresh, though.

The tension in her body soon dissipated. She felt relatively calm now; her hands no longer shook. She smiled to herself. The momentary fear was gone, replaced by a sense of clarity and relief. It almost felt to Luna like the entire year had been balled into one Stunning Spell, which, powered with so much emotion, had crashed her opponent through a window.

She could not, for the life of her, piece together what had happened, though. The rush of the duel had kept her on her toes for the last hour, but the event itself was far from normal. There had been a decent amount of sabotage attempts on her office made by _The Quibbler's_ competitors, but she hadn't seen Killing Curses ricocheting off walls in a long time.

She pulled a sheaf of parchment towards her, deciding to finish up her work before any more uncalled for interruptions appeared. Just as she put quill to parchment, a twinge of doubt gnawed at her. She still felt on edge, as if the Dark Days had come again. The thought stiffened her entire frame.

" _Expecto Patronum!"_ she murmured, raising her wand. The silver hare blinked at her once before half-hopping half-floating outside the window.


	4. Chapter 4: Home

Chapter 4: Home

A fist slammed onto the table, and the teacups rattled in their saucers. Vernon Dursley, positively pink with frustration, glowered at the table. He could not meet Petunia's eyes, because he had no solution to her problems. He felt frustrated at his inability to do things.

If it were logical, if it were realistic, if it were _normal,_ he would have been able to do something. But if Petunia was right, as she usually was, then _magic_ was involved. Vernon could spit out the word even in his thoughts. He hated magic. Not for its unrealism, but for its ability. For its lack of explanation. Things needed explanations. For example, Harry Potter appearing as a baby boy at his doorstep never had an explanation. It had been no surprise that the rest of his life had turned out the way it had- he was in a world of unexplained things. Vernon knew that deep down he could not understand a world like that- it was too loose and unstructured. And yet, here he stood, hating himself for depending on his nephew.

Petunia bit her nails anxiously. Her tears had stopped, at the very least. She waited, as patiently as she could, even after her shouting match with Vernon. He had told her, almost furiously, that it was hopeless. He had heard of this Ministry for Magic and its employees, but he had no love for it. He knew they had helped before- that Order of the Pidgeon or whatever they called it had been involved- but this time, it looked bleak. Dudley's disappearance no longer mattered to them now that Harry Potter no longer resided under the Dursley roof. Bitterly, Vernon understood that it was some extent his own fault, but it tore him apart regardless.

Vernon tried his best not to jump at every sound from the driveway, because he knew that god-awful _crack_ that accompanied these magic people. He found himself waiting for that sound. At that moment, Vernon Dursley realized just how much he needed the thing he detested the most- _magic._ Petunia had busied herself with making tea, though Vernon doubted she would even drink it. Just as the kettle began to whistle, the doorbell rang, a frightening sound that jarred Vernon out of his thoughts. Petunia made as if to move to the door, but her husband's pudgy hand stopped her. He pulled Petunia under the kitchen counter, and they began speaking in strangled whispers.

"What is it?" Petunia asked.

" _They never ring the bell, Petunia!"_

"Vernon, that's absurd-"

"No! It could be anyone, how do we know it's him?"

Petunia pursed her lips. She chanced a glance at the door. The doorbell rang yet again. Vernon could feel his wife's heart beating rapidly with every second. They stayed behind the counter, but froze when a loud click unlocked the door and it swung open. The afternoon light seeped in, and they heard footsteps on the wooden floor. The invader was absolutely silent.

Harry stood before a spick-and-span house, beautifully crafted, and beautifully maintained. An air of stiffness lingered here, one that Harry recognized. He took a few steps forward, wondering inwardly if he was too late, if Dudley was no longer the only victim. But before he could make any conclusions in his own mind, he heard the soft whimpering of Vernon Dursley.

"I know you're hiding. It's me. Come out." He said, hiding a smirk that had automatically appeared on his face. Cheeky attitude came easily to him in the Durlseys' presence.

Slowly, his Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia appeared from under the kitchen counter. Harry's eyes widened as he took their features in. Age had worked its magic on both of them, but he could see that they were much the same people. Dressed in a white shirt and black trousers, Vernon Dursley must have been getting ready for work when his son was taken. Petunia stood mutely in her sleeping gown. The Dursleys had nothing to say at that moment, as they gazed at Harry in his black Auror robes. He wondered how different he looked to them.

There was an awkwardness abounding in the living room area, but Harry had no time for it. He had already seen the strange scorch and claw marks on the front lawn, but he wanted to hear it from Petunia. He assumed that the pair had frozen still as statues, and would be so for some time, and so he took off his cloak and tossed it onto the sofa. He made his way past his Aunt, conjuring three cups and three saucers. As they turned to him almost incredulously, he began pouring out the tea.

Petunia seemed to remember herself suddenly, and she stepped forward and pulled out a tray.

"Let me." She simply said, arranging the saucers and taking the tray to the dining table, where Vernon had slowly made his way to.

It had been years since Harry had heard her voice, but he still noticed that Petunia sounded like she had been crying all day. Vernon was silent and still, his eyes moving between Harry and his aunt. Harry sipped his tea. It was unsweetened, but he didn't say anything about it. He looked up at Petunia.

"We don't have time for tea, Petunia." He said. "What happened?"

Petunia Dursley told him everything she heard, everything she saw and didn't see, and everything she thought, thought it was hardly anything to talk about. Harry simply nodded and frowned as he listened to the vague story. There were no deductions he could make, no signs he could follow, and no direction for his thoughts to take. Claw marks could indicate the taking-off of a Hippogriff, but where did scorch marks come in? His mind instantly went to Hagrid's Blast-Ended-Skrewts, but then he recalled that those creatures thankfully did not fly.

There was no apparating involved; in fact, there seemed to be nothing involved with Dudley's disappearance. Harry swore under his breath- he had no information to help him make any sort of connection. He could only drink his sugarless tea and continue thinking.

"Could it be- _him?"_ Vernon burst out.

"Who?" Harry said, looking up. Then he shook his head nonchalantly. "Voldemort's dead. It's not him."

"Then who could have taken our son?" Petunia demanded softly.

"I don't know." Said Harry flatly. He was honest, but his lack of understanding irritated him.

He whipped his neck around as four loud cracks appeared one after the other right outside the Dursleys' little house.

"We're about to find out." he said grimly. "Get down!" he yelled as the _whoosh_ of four spells shattered the door and windows. Petunia and Vernon, whimpering in fear, crept under the kitchen counter once again, and Harry rolled towards the broken window, crouching as low as possible. He didn't have his invisibility cloak with him, unfortunately, but he did have the piece of mirror his godfather had given him years ago. He pulled it out carefully, holding it at an angle. He could see in its reflection four men, dressed in Muggle clothes. For some reason, he could not make out their faces. He had a hundred questions running through his mind- including just how on earth four wizards had managed to attack this house.

Before he had rang the doorbell, Harry had silently cast the normal set of protective charms around the house. No wizard should have been able to see the house, let alone attack it. But there was no time to worry about that. Harry's Auror training kicked in, and he remembered every piece of combat he had been through. He checked the mirror's reflection again. The four wizards were walking towards the house, almost casually. Did they not realize that Harry was here? Were they simply here to continue their attack on the Dursley family?

"They're Muggles, they're probably hiding behind a chair as I speak." a soft voice said. The four now stood at the front door. Harry smiled triumphantly to himself. From the floor, Vernon and Petunia looked at Harry as if he had gone mad. He took a deep breath. Remembering every stretch for the Snitch he had done in the air, he lunged out of the broken window, ignoring the pain as sharp shards cut his ribs. He landed on his back and rolled instantly.

 _Levicorpus! Levicorpus!_

Two wizards in Muggle clothes hung upside down six feet in the air, their wands useless on the grass. Harry thanked his lucky stars that Lovington was even _quieter_ than Privet Drive in the afternoon- hopefully no Muggles could see the two men dangling in the air, held by an invisible hook, or so it seemed. Before the other two could react, Harry had sent a quick _Reducto_ at them. The red light took both wizards off their feet, sending them flying backwards into Aunt Petunia's china cabinet. Petunia screamed. Harry used the front door, now open, to enter his Aunt and Uncle's house. He beheld the two wizards lying unconscious and bleeding in the wreck of the cabinet, and picked up their wands before they awoke.

" _Rennervate"_ he said, pointing his phoenix feather wand at the man with the most visible signs of damage. He wore a simple collarless t-shirt and denims, both now filled with numerous cuts across the fabric. The man was young, far too young. His long, unkempt hair reminded Harry of his fourteen year old self. His frame was slim and lanky, but his face was what Harry focused on. The boy would have been young, but his face looked older than Harry's. Tanned skin stretched over strikingly sharp cheekbones that would have made this fallen warrior look almost handsome. He looked like a boy who had been through the miseries of a much older man. Suddenly, the boy coughed and his eyes opened under the influence of the spell. His eyes were dark chocolate brown and largely unfocused until they rested on Harry.

"What's your name?" he demanded, pointing his wand at the boy, who looked at him with an expression much like pity. He shook his head.

"Who sent you?"

Again, a shake of the head. As Harry watched, the boy raised his right arm. There was no danger, no wand in his grasp, but he was confused when he realized that the boy was merely looking at his watch. Pale lips mouthed seconds counting down, and tension suddenly gripped Harry. Before he could rise, the boy began shaking violently. As the Dursleys and Harry watched, his skin turned sallow, and his bones began crumbling. Soon, there was nothing left on the kitchen floor but dust that had come from rapidly decaying bones. His clothes had burned away in the process, leaving no evidence whatsoever.

Harry spun around, sprinting out the door. He looked for the other two, and was dismayed to find piles of dust on the ground. He grimaced; dying while hanging upside down must have been worse than dying in the remains of a china cabinet. Inside the house, the Dursleys hadn't moved an inch. They regarded Harry with an emotion almost like alarm. He wondered if, for the first time, his Aunt and Uncle feared him. Vernon's eyes were fixedly on his wand.

The last assailant was still unconscious, and Harry left him there as he repaired the door and the windows. The glass and wood sailed back into place. Harry was blank on what to do. He waited for the young man on the floor to disintegrate, but he did not. Unconsciousness, it seemed, prevented the attacker's imminent death.

Harry sat down at the table and closed his eyes, rubbing his temples. He _could_ tie up the attacker and apparate straight to the Auror office, but he wondered if it was a pointless thing to do. What was the point of questioning a man who died the moment he woke up? And how were they supposed to get _any_ information with this obstacle in the way? What troubled him more than anything was how the four managed to get past his protective spells. Technically speaking, it was an impossibility, and yet, four young men had managed to get through.

Only then did Harry notice his Aunt and Uncle, standing quite still. He sighed and realized that the solution was written before him.

" _Expecto Patronum"_ he murmured, and a silver stag went forth from the tip of his wand. It turned to gaze at him, tilting its head, before cantering off into the sky.

"Are you sending for help?"

Harry turned to see Petunia staring at him anxiously. There was an edge of worry in her voice, as if she feared her nephew would abandon her at this moment.

"No, I'm letting some friends know that we're on the way." He said, getting up.

" _We're?"_ asked Vernon, his moustache bristling uncomfortably.

"Yes. _We-_ you, your wife, and I. You can't be here anymore. It's no longer safe." Harry said.

"But what about Dudley? You can't just expect us to pick up and leave when our son-"

Harry had had enough.

"This is not an argument. You leave with me, because this isn't safe anymore. This involves a lot more than just your son, and in order to get him back, I need to understand this far more than I do right now." He looked at Petunia, and she mutely nodded.

While the Dursleys packed, Harry quickly gathered his thoughts. He was plagued by an incessant feeling of malice- like a voice telling him he need not be kind to his relatives. A gnawing urge to repay them for the torture they put him through filled his mind. He could not look at his Aunt and Uncle without feeling that surge of anger. It seemed, that after so much time of peace and happiness, Harry now resented the past he had gone through at Privet Drive. He wondered how satisfying it would feel to put a pig's tail on his Uncle's backside darkly.

"Where are we going?"

Harry looked up. Vernon and Dursley Petunia were standing amidst their luggage with blank faces. Vernon clutched a pair of car keys in his right hand. Harry frowned. His first thought had been to apparate the Dursleys along with him, but now the keys seemed to present another opportunity. He looked out the window, narrowing his eyes to look in the distance. The rain had started, and a fierce wind was blowing. Harry could hear it howling away from inside the house.

"For a drive."

Harry led the Dursleys into their car- he sat in the front with Uncle Vernon, whose moustache bristled as his nephew took the seat. He instructed Petunia behind him to be ready no matter what- she trembled even though all he had asked her to do was hold on to every piece of luggage. There were only a few bags, fortunately. The rain pattered loudly onto the hood of the car, and Harry lowered the window, watching anxiously for trouble.

"Where?" Vernon asked.

"Wherever. Away." He said.

With visibility impaired heavily, Harry found himself pointing his wand at everything that moved. He almost fired a curse at several stray animals, only holding back the words just in time. By his reckoning, being in this automobile was by far the most vulnerable he could ever be. All it would take was one well-aimed curse at the engine and they would go up in smoke.

The first curse gleamed maniacally as it traveled towards them. Vernon grasped the wheel with force, intending to swerve, but Harry steadied his hand. He deflected the curse, watching it shatter a fire hydrant into pieces. Several more flashed towards them, but these were mild curses- easy to push away. Harry realized too late that they were traveling downhill, and the land around the road rose up to form two ledges on either side. For the enemy, this was an opportune moment. He thanked his lucky stars that the rain was coming down in sheets now. The torrent was getting worse, but Harry urged Vernon to drive as fast as he possibly could. Zooming along the stretch of road at a hundred miles an hour, it was a wonder the tires didn't lose grip on the wet asphalt.

An unreadable sign flashed past them, and they were finally out of Lovington. Harry tensed, his forearm muscles clenching as his grip on his wand tightened. He had to work harder now to keep destruction away from the Dursleys' vehicle. He would have to wait for the right moment, and waiting made him feel rather vulnerable.


	5. Chapter 5: From the Fireplace

**Chapter 5: From the Fireplace**

Soaked from head to toe, the two men looked down at the tiny car speeding along. Their blue robes made them look like a piece of sky that had fallen to the ground- but their wands told a far more violent story. They fired curses like berserkers, filling the valley with light. But Harry Potter had set up an impenetrable defense around the vehicle.

"He's cast a powerful charm around the car. I can't hit it!" the first man said, grimacing in frustration. He crouched low as an explosion shattered the ground beside him. Wet soil flew chaotically around him. Potter had decided to retaliate.

Suddenly, they found themselves seemingly outnumbered. Spells ricocheted everywhere; dangerous curses that cut rocks like melted cheese and started fires even the rains could not douse.

"It could be a trap- what if there are wizards in the car with him?"

They began to run to keep up with the silver car, narrowly avoiding jets of light.

"No!" gasped the other man. "It's only _him_!"

Disbelief etched on their faces, they continued firing curse after curse at Potter, infuriated that one man was breaking down their attacks like he could read them. They couldn't hit the car; it was far too protected. And they couldn't touch Potter either; his Shield Charm reflected any curse into the sidewalks on either side.

" _One_ Auror." The taller man said, breathing hard. Suddenly, his face lit up. His expression twisted into a cruel smile. "Oh, he won't expect this, though."

Before his partner could make a move, he pointed his wand at the road ahead of Potter's car.

" _REDUCTO!"_

A good sized piece of road cracked and burst forth. Both men watched as the car ran headlong into it. The explosion shook their very bones. These flames raged on, ignoring the pressures of rainfall.

Harry had thought he had been doing incredibly well on his own, before a piece of the road hurtled towards them. Petunia screamed. A huge chunk of asphalt and soil had been blasted into the air, and the force of the hurricane pushed it back. Harry acted as quickly as he could, turning his torso around to face Vernon. He grabbed his Uncle's forearm with one hand and Petunia's bony wrist with the other. He turned to watch the piece of road connect with the hood of the car. He saw a spark, signaling the oncoming explosion. He heard the roar of fire only for a second.

The Dursleys crashed to the carpeted floor. Harry exhaled heavily, the image of the raging explosion freshly burned into his eyes. Uncle Vernon had slammed face-first into the carpet, but looked better than Harry felt. Petunia had landed on her backside, her face frozen in a mask of shock. Immediately, she retched to the side, covering her mouth quickly. Harry suppressed a smile. His first time apparating had been almost as unsettling.

From around him, the smell of a freshly cleaned house filled his nostrils. He looked around at a house that he knew too well, but a house that had transformed completely. The greens and blacks had been replaced with reds, maroons, and silvers. The decaying tapestries had been thrown out, and in their place hung beautiful paintings of witches, wizards, and in particular, house elves. There were a few crudely drawn pictures of Harry, Ron, and Hermione. The sight of them always gave Harry a tinge of sadness.

Soon after Yaxley had grabbed at Hermione as they apparated out of the Ministry of Magic, thus finding out about Number 12, Grimmauld Place, Harry had put the house out of his mind. Now that it's location was no longer secret to his enemies, the house had been rendered useless. He had assumed that no living soul would enter it again, not after the Death Eaters ransacked it. Only after he had moved in did he realize that one friend of his _did_ return to the musty, dark, massive house. Dobby the house-elf must have sought to surprise Harry with the makeover. Gryffindor banners hung where Slytherin ones had originally, and the house looked newly bought. Harry had wept openly as he beheld the beautiful house his godfather had left him, especially since it looked like _home_ to him more than ever.

"Where are we?" Petunia asked.

Harry had forgotten them. The couple stood side by side, marveling at the gorgeous display around them. The crystal chandelier that glinted and gleamed reflected yellow light all around the room, and Harry realized that his Aunt and Uncle now fully understood the life he was supposed to have- before Voldemort took it from him.

"Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Sirius left it to me in his will." Harry felt good saying it loud; it meant _acknowledging_ the existence of his godfather.

"Your-your Godfather?"

Harry looked up, wide-eyed that Petunia had remembered. He nodded, impressed.

It took a good ten minutes for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia to finally take a seat on one of the numerous sofas arranged around the spacious living room. Petunia still clutched her bag like it would grow legs and scuttle away from her. The cool temperature within Grimmauld Place slowly warmed up to them after Harry pointed his wand at the fireplace. Flames rose up, and immediately turned a bright shade of green. Shapes began shifting around in the fire, and a foot emerged, stepping onto the carpet.

In a creased, jet black suit, he looked far from what he had been at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A tie dangled from his neck. The only thing that made Seamus Finnigan look magical was the wand clutched in his hand. He put his wand away rather hastily after noticing the two Muggles sitting on the sofa, and then walked to straight to Harry, giving him a crushing hug. Harry could smell something strange on his friend- an odd scent of flowers and rosy fragrances. He caught Seamus's eye, but his old classmate looked away quickly, but not quick enough for Harry to fail to notice the tear tracks running down his face.

"I got your message right after the funeral," he said.

Harry's words almost caught in his throat.

"The funeral?"

Seamus was silent as he scanned Grimmauld Place. He did not comment on the change in décor.

"My mother died yesterday, Harry."

Harry inhaled sharply. He had no idea what to say- an apology for a loss never sufficed, but what else could he say?

"That's why I came as soon as I got your message." Seamus said, staring straight at Harry. The intense look in his eyes spelt pure determination and drive. He glanced at Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, regarding their Muggle attire and stunned faces.

"I'm sorry your son was kidnapped, Sir, Ma'am, we'll do everything we can to find them." He said, his words dripping with politeness. Vernon and Petunia nodded at Seamus- for once, Harry felt, Vernon could not say anything scathing to a wizard, not a wizard arriving from a funeral. Seamus's politeness was something Harry could never achieve when it came to his Muggle family, but he was thankful to Seamus for it. After pulling off his blazer and hanging it on a chair, Seamus turned to Harry. His expression had turned very grim.

"My mother was kidnapped, Harry. They found her dead on the street. Injuries on her face." He said. "She always was a fighter." He finished mildly.

Things began forming in Harry's mind- half-baked theories and views that might have fit. He looked between the Dursleys and Seamus, his mind working furiously. His hand went unconsciously to the coin in his right pocket- a coin that he had kept safe since his Fifth Year at Hogwarts.

"Dudley Dursley. My mother. Both Muggles. My mother fought, they killed her. Harry, we need to speak to Kingsley before this gets out of hand. All of us need to be pulled into this," said Seamus, pouring himself a glass of cold water.

Harry knew Seamus was spot on. The killing of Mrs. Finnigan had left a dangerous trail in their minds, and it seemed far more than a simple murder to Harry. He knew that his cousin and Mrs. Finnigan had faced the same horror, but the root of this was nowhere to be seen. As he had departed from Lovington in the Dursleys' silver car, he had been unable to make out the faces of his attackers in the pouring rain. He imagined Kingsley already knew of his change in plan, of how Harry apparated to Lovington even though he was advised not to. Harry clenched his fists. Seamus was right. Two Aurors could not fight against an unknown enemy with patterns like this. They needed all their colleagues for them to muster a force powerful enough.

While Seamus climbed the stairs to freshen up and change into more comfortable clothes, Harry led his Aunt and Uncle to one of the old bedrooms- Sirius' parents'. There was silence exchanged between them- no pestering questions from Petunia, no scornful remarks from Vernon – but that seemed to be purely because they moved around in this magical house with fear. Harry realized already that they looked at _him_ with the same fear- the fear of the unknown, the most dangerous phobia that the Dursleys had.

Harry felt a burden lift off his shoulders once they shut the door. His mind cleared, and he could think faster. He pulled out the golden Galleon in his pocket, wondering if his friends kept it with them as he did. He had not summoned Dumbledore's Army in years; the Galleons had lost their importance. Peace had perhaps rendered them useless. He waited in the hall for Seamus to join him, and soon, they were clinking together bottles of Butterbeer. Harry supposed his absence at the Auror office would give Kingsley a fright, but he had sent a silver stag to the Minister to inform him of every detail. He was confident that Kingsley would see this is as an important task- and would put all the Aurors on this case- but Harry was fully prepared for that _not_ to happen.

The Aurors rarely had time to waste. A new case popped up every day- often unexciting ones with no potential. Harry wondered if a case like this could be termed 'priority'. Two kidnapped Muggles- one dead – rarely found its way into their folders. But Harry hoped that the connection he and Seamus had to this would be considered. It was not unheard of for Auror families to be attacked. Harry gazed at the bottle of Butterbeer, wondering if this was a hate crime for the wizards he and Seamus had put in Azkaban over the recent months. A gruesome and dark image of the only Azkaban prisoner he saw in his dreams, Bellatrix Lestrange, swam before him. Her dominating gaze held him even in death. Molly Weasley could not destroy the dangerous memory of Bellatrix, no more than Harry could forget Voldemort's slit-like nose.

The wizard prison had been newly fortified. It's grey walls were no longer surrounded by Dementors, Harry had read in _The Daily Prophet,_ but instead by a great host of guards and magical creatures. He had secretly hoped that after the war of Hogwarts, the magic world would see the danger in employing Dementors, but he had no need to hope. The Dementors disappeared soon after the war- leaving Azkaban bare and empty. _The Daily Prophet_ released regular updates on the search, and how badly it was going. Harry was both dismayed and pleased by the news reports; the absence of Dementors was excellent, but the fact that _nobody_ knew where they were frightened him. You needed more than fancy wand work to repel a Dementor, as he had learned repeatedly. He had not felt the cold sadness of their presence in a while, and he was thankful for that. But he remembered it. At a time like this, Harry remembered it.

With a loud _crack,_ Ron and Hermione materialized. With her new Ministry of Magic air, Hermione commanded a new sort of respect, even when she was out of her formal clothes. Seamus, slumbering peacefully underneath a blanket, did not stir. Harry thought he heard Vernon cursing from upstairs. Apparently, Ron had too. He glanced upwards.

"So you really did bring them here?" he asked, a smirk appearing on his face.

"He couldn't possibly leave them to die, could he?" Hermione said, frowning at Ron. "It was a good decision, Harry." She continued, nodding at Harry. Ron scoffed, muttering something under his breath and making his way to the kitchen. Harry thought he heard the words 'put him in a cage' and 'should've given them all Ton Tongues'.

Still grumbling, Ron began pouring himself a glass of Firewhiskey, his eyes narrow and annoyed.

"You pulled him off his Vampire case for this," Hermione explained.

"Harry, Dudley probably went for a walk and lost his way. Brains the size of Scabbers." said Ron, snarling. Harry remembered Peter Pettigrew's sneaky rat form with distaste.

"It's not just Dudley, that's the problem", Harry said, gesturing at the couch, where the covered figure of Seamus Finnigan slept. Hermione gingerly picked up the edge of the blanket and revealed her old classmate's face. His mouth hung open in his slumber.

"Seamus? He was on holiday today," remarked Ron, frowning.

"Because," Harry said, lowering his voice as much as possible. Ron leaned in. "Someone tried to kidnap his mother. She fought and they killed her. They found her on the street."

Hermione's hands went to her mouth, stifling a gasp. Ron's expression now closely resembled Seamus'. Harry made eye contact with Hermione, and he had that familiar feeling- of almost _hearing_ the gears in her brain start whirring as she rapidly began thinking. Her eyes widened as she made the connection.

"Could it have anything to do with the fact that Seamus and you are both Aurors?" she asked, her words so quick they almost ran into each other.

"Could be. I thought of that. But I have a feeling this is different." Harry went on to explain the attack at Lovington, and the way the assailants bodies had disintegrated in defeat.

Hermione tilted her head almost sideways.

"It's a very Muggle thing to do…" she said. "Suicide before giving out any information. I've read about it."

"Oh! Seamus' mother's a Muggle!" Ron said finally, as it dawned on him. Hermione ignored him.

"We're dealing with someone cruel enough to cast a curse like that on his followers." Harry stated bluntly. He associated _followers_ with _Death Eaters,_ but he hoped the similarity ended there.

"It's not unheard of. Dark magic, but efficient magic." she said. Harry raised an eyebrow.

"What? It is," she said rather defensively. "At this rate, we'll never get any of them alive, which effectively means they've closed off all sources of information."

"Which means we need to find the one at the top," Ron said. Harry nodded. Ron and he had been through this several times- infiltrating dark organizations that had sprung up after Voldemort's death had been easy yet tedious.

"Assuming we gather enough information-"

"We will. Things are different now. We have the Ministry." Ron said. Hermione shook her head sadly.

"I doubt Kingsley can authorize an Auror mission like this, Ron. Too many resources and not enough at stake."

"That's ridiculous, I'm sure if we spoke to him-"

"No, Ron, I think we're on our own for this one," said Harry blankly. Hermione suddenly looked up, as if struck by lightning.

"There is one option." Her eyes gleamed almost maniacally. Harry nodded.

"I've thought of it. But Dumbledore's Army became the Order, and the Order disbanded after Voldemort died. Who says any of our friends even keep this?" he asked mutely, holding up the Galleon Hermione had cast a Protean Charm on several years ago.

"I say."

Seamus Finnigan sat up, rubbing his eyes. He pulled out a Galleon, old and worn out, showing it to them.

"Dumbledore's Army was a symbol of resistance and justice to us, Harry. I've never let that coin out of my sight, and I _know_ our friends wouldn't have, either. At least, the ones I'm thinking of."

There was nothing around him but darkness, but the tall man stumbled out of his bedroom, grabbing onto anything for support. He edged towards the steps, but the entire building was shaking so much he made it only a few feet before dropping to his knees. He crawled to the steps, looking down into what seemed to be an abyss ringed by a staircase.

" _Lumos!"  
_

George Weasley's face suddenly emerged into visibility. Holding his shaking hand out in front of him, he slowly climbed down the staircase. At the very beginning of this staircase, he knew he would find the switchboard. He pictured his twin brother, even in that shaky mess, looking at him askance and saying "Aren't you a fucking wizard?", but George darkly recalled the last time he had tried switching on the lights with magic. There had been a miniature explosion, and a box of fireworks, his own design, had almost set the roof on fire. Weasley's Wizard Wheezes was far too flammable of a shop to risk thrusting magic here and there. Then again, he had seen his mother turn out the lights with her wand, but he had half her skill.

He didn't even hear the click of the switch amid the rumbling earthquake. An earthquake in Diagon Alley? George swore out loud. One night of solid, dreamless sleep had disappeared because of something that _never_ happened. The lights blazed into existence, illuminating the entire shop. He saw shelves shaking, boxes falling out, but mostly, the shop still looked the same, apart from shaking nonstop. Five seconds later, the rumbling stopped. George stood his ground for a good minute or so, his wand held tight in his hand, until he made his way downstairs. With a lazy wave, he sent all the tumbled boxes and products back to their places. As far as he could tell, nothing had broken.

Standing in the middle of the gigantic shop, George breathed very hard to calm himself down. A large portion of his sleepiness still hung over him, and he began to think of his bed again, until he looked up at the shelves. He had done it far too many times- ruminated over how Fred would have loved to be here. The newly renovated Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes was a huge structure, taller than the Burrow but most definitely more stable. Standing there with one ear, George Weasley began to wonder again how he managed everything around him. Without Fred, it had seemed impossible. No brother, no nothing. He never gave the business a thought, even months after Fred's death. But when the ball started to roll, he realized his brother's absence even more. Of course, he did have Ron and Harry coming in whenever they could. In reality, he hardly needed help. In fact, he needed none at all, but he liked the company. He realized much later that the two enjoyed being in a place like this- a place whose light could not be extinguished even as Lord Voldemort's followers continually decimated Diagon Alley. It was only when Harry had told him in confidence that Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes was a source of happiness for him amid all the Dark Wizard catching did he realize how special the joke shop was.

Harry Potter would have had something interesting to say about this earthquake, George thought, smirking. Harry had grown into his new Auror role as easily as he had gotten used to being on a broomstick. His wand did things that the others could hardly understand, and he managed to unravel the most difficult of cases with ease. George almost laughed aloud- of course, anything would seem simple after hunting Horcruxes.

George made a mental note to check on any broken products later. On Saturday night, he had no intention of doing anything but crawl into bed and curl up under his quilt. Soon, the lights of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes had been turned off, and George was in bed.

When the sun rose on Diagon Alley the next morning, George could hear the commotion. The residents of the area avidly discussed the earthquake like a gossip topic, and the shop owners with homes away from Diagon were astounded to see broken windows and a street absolutely misshapen. A few good-natured fellow shop owners peeped in to ask George if everything was tip top as usual. Still mumbling grumpily to himself, George made himself a pair of bullseyes and sipped on orange juice to start the Sunday.

For the first Sunday ever, Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes was closed. George had decided, against his own pattern of thought, to take a break from work. He chuckled to himself- perhaps taking a holiday was as unprecedented as an earthquake in Diagon Alley. He realized then, with a jolt, that he had nothing to do. He was entirely blank on how to carry on with his day. A walk seemed hardly a possibility- winter had decided to lower its damp head on all of them, and snow fell thickly outside his window. The snowfall had begun soon after sunrise, but already, the streets were blanketed with white. He shivered until he stepped into the hot shower, and he shivered as he put on his coat over his shirt.

He pulled a Gryffindor scarf around his neck, grinning widely at himself. In the shower, he had used his time to think, and he had struck gold. True, he had nothing to do on a Sunday- but then again, there were _plenty_ of people with nothing to do on a Sunday. His mind drifted to old holidays spent in Hogwarts- he and Fred sipping warm Butterbeer after tossing Dungbombs at Argus Filch, them spotting Honeydukes, an act that filled them with happiness, and even the snow-covered towers of the castle. George had begun smiling to himself under the cascade of hot water.

He stood admiring snow-covered Diagon Alley for a few minutes before he disappeared with a _crack._ Seconds later, he smiled broadly as he reappeared in the most beautiful place he had ever set eyes on. For all his life, he would never stop being in love with Hogsmeade. The little village held eternal charm to him. Of course, one good reason lay in the fact that he had always had a deep desire to buy Honeydukes. He had not begun the purchase yet, but it was all part of the plan. It didn't hurt to see customers entering his competition's joke shop- it only filled him with nostalgia. George took a deep breath and began to walk up the pathway, dodging students in winter clothes and colorful scarves. The castle loomed over him from afar, and he remembered that he _hated_ the long walk. He stopped, wondering if he could send his Patronus to the castle with a message. He wondered if the Herbology Professor was immersed in his books, or perhaps walking astride the Great Lake.

"George!"

George turned, grinning. Herbology ace or not, Neville Longbottom still liked to have a drink from time to time. Neville looked nothing like the Neville George had known in Hogwarts. The cowering, whimpering boy had turned into a handsome young man, tall and regal in his long coat. Beside Neville were teenage students, standing in a group.

"Thought you'd never get out of that shop," Neville said, chortling. He pulled George into a bear hug, almost crushing the ginger-haired man to death. He pulled George along, waving goodbye to his students.

Neville led him straight to the Hog's Head Inn. The dingy pub was as grime-filled as it ever was, with strange witches and wizards and other creatures hulking around their drinks. George loved it; it reminded him of Knockturn Alley. He and Neville found a circular little table in the corner, but George still wondered why Neville would bring him here. He could only picture the Herbology Professor in something as posh as The Three Broomsticks, which arguably wasn't posh at all. His mind went back to when Sirius Black had given Harry the worst piece of advice ever- to have their initial Dumbledore's Army meeting here, where 'nobody' would hear them. It had been rather sad that it had turned on its head entirely.

He wondered absentmindedly if Neville had chosen a place like this to be away from prying eyes. It didn't seem like Herbology had many secrets to it. Suddenly inside the shade of the Hog's Head, Neville sighed with relief. George frowned.

"Come here often, Neville?" he asked, looking around. "It's as unsettling as it always was."

"No kids here," Neville admitted darkly. For safe measure, he seemed to look into the dark corners of the pub, just to check. George sniggered.

"Your fans been following you around, Professor? Imagine if they could see you in your first year-"

Luckily for Neville, Aberforth Dumbledore's cheery face appeared before them. The long beard that resembled his brother's had been shaved soon after the Second Wizarding War. The transformation had not stopped there. Inch by inch, a smile had begun appearing on Aberforth's face. Neville, a great admirer and friend of the pub-owner, continued to pester him to come to social events and parties. Neville once brought a very nervous looking Ab into The Burrow, outside which he stood for a full awkward five minutes before Harry and Ron apparated behind him and pushed him in. Ab had warmed up to them soon enough- almost like hard and cold butter melting into softness. George found that the grumpy man could smile quite beautifully, and his piercing blue eyes, though they resembled his brother's, were a stunning shade.

Ab had no intention of taking their orders. He pulled up a chair after clasping George's hand. Before Neville could start, he motioned to a waiter, who approached, a notepad and quill levitating by his head.

"Three Firewhiskeys," Aberforth ordered.

The drinks arrived in seconds, steaming and frothing. George had to admit- the first time he had tasted Butterbeer, it had filled him with such warmth it was unimaginable. But he and his brother had discovered within Hogwarts walls that the rush of Firewhiskey was _far_ better.

"So, Professor, you wanted to talk?" Aberforth said, after taking a deep gulp.

Neville nodded.

"Good thing I bumped into George, he should know too. Has anything unnatural happened in Hogsmeade, Ab?" he asked.

Caught off guard, Ab, had to think about it. He then shook his head. Neville scanned his surroundings for the third time.

"I was attacked during a Herbology lecture."

George almost slopped Firewhiskey down his front.


End file.
